


an author's mask

by hurricane_drunk



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Alternate Universe - Talentswap (Dangan Ronpa), Character Study, M/M, also a character study, photographer!shuichi, this was an excuse to try out a new writing style, writing prodigy!oma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 07:52:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18278972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricane_drunk/pseuds/hurricane_drunk
Summary: oneshot: author!kokichi hasn't shown up to his classes in a while. photographer!shuichi pays him a visit





	an author's mask

**Author's Note:**

> kinda a blend of their pregame personalities and their in-game personalities? idk, they'd have different personalities if their talents were different i think. i just wanted to write abt kokichi tbh.

Kokichi Oma was a liar. He spoke those lies as if they were his mother tongue, a language he mastered before all others. His affair with lies may have been pathological, compulsive, necessary for his survival. But when he was writing, he could not find it in himself, not matter how hard he tried, to speak anything but his truth. He may have done it through fiction, through wordplay and plot devices, but still he bared his soul. His first novel brought fame to his door, it had been written on napkins and scribbled down when he woke in a sweat from visions of the future. He was plagued by nightmares. He wished to reach out, but crying wolf was his nature, and none found patience to decipher the truth from his incoherent babbles and riddles.

That is, until Shuichi Saihara kicked down his doors, his walls, stripped him of his wallpaper and re-painted him true. How funny, the duality of man- the boy had simply offered him an outstretched hand and a smile- and the writer’s breath was stolen and feet kicked out from neath him. Kokichi was one to make mountains out of molehills- and he found himself rock climbing with nothing but his bloodied fingers and blind faith. The two had known each other but a month’s passing, and the author had already fallen heels over head downhill for the poor photographer. Fitting, wouldn’t you think?

It was no secret that Kokichi was a liar. He was worshipped for his literary genius, but his throne was built on deceit. His hands were stained, they were dirtied beyond recognition- even to himself. And yet, there he stood before Shuichi Saihara, and his lies met their fate upon an unopened mouth. He was terrified. At the very least, the metaphorical mask which he adorned had not broken; but he could feel the chips and cracks starting to form. The photographer was a chisel, his kindness the mallet. Kokichi’s mask was slowly being carved away- the other man attempting to sculpt it into something beautiful. 

His brain- his wonderful brain which had been praised for its prose and literacy- had been dulled down to three choices (flightfightfreeze). He ultimately chose that of which he always did- his feet itched to move, his lips twitched in barely held back insults- he attempted to take the role of a coward, attempted to submit to his urges and run. But a foot in the door held him true. It was not unknown to him that there was evident fear in his eyes, that Shuichi could see behind the mask. He attempted to sew himself back together, using those lovely, lovely lies.

“Well, my my my, Shuichi! I didn’t take you for a kidnapper!” His childlike giggle dissolved in the air around them. The accused kidnapper did not budge. Instead, he slipped his grip to the door’s knob, pulling it open further. An eye’s widen and a smirk’s drop was his response. The man was chipping away at his sanity, dragged his honesty out of him with fish hooks. Had shown up to his apartment’s door at an ugodly hour because he had been fucking _worried._ The literary considered that no one had been worried for him before.

Suddenly words evaded his lips, his mind working too fast for him to rebuild his walls, to construct them around him as he speaks, shrouding myself under the guise of mystery. Although romance was his domain- many had praised him of re-writing what romance novels mean, setting a new standard for every possible YA author to come after him- he had never really, truly been in love. Infatuated, sure. Obsessed even. But never like this- never unconditional, never all-consuming and so wholly. It felt as though Shuichi was holding a knife to his throat, he was trapped. He had to trust the other boy not to push.

“Where have you been, Kokichi?” The taunting had rolled off his back. The author would need to step up his game. He adored the flustered, shocked look he was rewarded from the taller boy when he said something coy. But now there was a serious gleam in those gray eyes, a newfound analytical stare that Kokichi did not like. The determined set of his jaw, the way the street lamp’s orange glow haloed around his nocturne hair- he looked like a sidewalk angel. The liar had never felt more trapped by this. He needed a way out.

“Avoiding you, Shuichi.” He did his best to reflect the boy’s seriousness, a tilt to his head to add emphasis that this knowledge _should_ be obvious. “You’ve been a real bother, y’know? Always following me around. You’re trying to figure me out, Sherlock, and I’m not a case file.” It wasn’t completely untrue- Kokichi’s love for Shuichi had been an issue, he was not supposed to fall for anyone, let alone become completely disassembled. He could see the flash of hurt in the photographer’s eyes, an eyebrow’s quirk and a hard blink.

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?” Fuck. “You wouldn’t have given me your address if you didn’t want me to find you. You wouldn’t have let me in, Kokichi. I know you.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“No, my beloved, you do not. No one does.” A small chuckle, a muttered _“not even I do.”_ A head’s shake. He couldn’t break eye contact. “You’re rather entitled to believe you’re that important to me, y’know that? No one’s important to me.” A cheshire grin. “I would apologize for leading you to believe otherwise, but that would be a lie. And I hate lies.” This elicited a lip’s twitch upward from the photographer. Why hasn’t Kokichi just closed the damn door already? Why is he entertaining this conversation? He didn’t know the answer, but had a feeling Shuichi did. In all honesty, he probably _did_ know Kokichi better than himself.

There was no flinch this time. “Oh really?” He teased, taking a step forward. The smaller boy mirrored this movement, but in reverse. He did not like how cocky Shuichi was acting. He didn’t like how it made his stomach stir and his heart skip beats. This boy might be the death of him. It wouldn’t be the worst way to go, he figured. He quite liked the idea of dying in that man’s arms. 

“Kokichi, if you didn’t want my help- no, if you didn’t want _me_ \- you would have slammed this door in my face.” His hand reached out, between them, to hold the other’s (shaking, shaking). He flinched at the contact, but did nothing to remove himself. Kokichi could only flush in response. He had been completely cornered. 

“Don’t… don’t hurt me,” he whispered, so quiet the night air almost engulfed it entirely. “Please,” was mothed, voice chords failing to make the beg audible. He was too vulnerable. His mind was working quickly- his options were to A) complete the suggested action and slam the door into its frame, B) improvise some wit in hopes to drive the other boy away, or C) give in. Shortly this decision was made for him, as Shuichi tugged the hand attached to him, causing a stumble forwards from the shorter. He attempted to protest, but quickly he noticed blue hair only inches from his face, golden gray eyes meeting his. He flushed. Stopping the boy in front of him from leaning in would be the right choice- he knew that. But he was frozen, his desires at war with his logic.

Shuichi was leaving plenty of time for the small boy to move away. But he didn’t. And soon enough, their lips met- not a clash, but a melding. Soft. it gave both of them a sense of comfort neither had quite felt before. Kokichi’s usually sharp mind went blank. He could not register anything other than the sensation of his lip’s first meet with another. He felt his mask slip off completely.

All he knew was that the boy he was in love with was cupping his face gently- as if he were fragile and breakable. It was softer than anything he had ever experienced. Shuichi was like flower petals- smoothe, soft, sweet. Gentle. The author’s hands began to migrate to the other boy’s chest- why was he so fucking tall?- and if it was in preparation to shove him off, or pull him closer, he didn’t quite know yet. They parted, and the shorter boy leaned up to chase those lips, attempt to prolong the kind touch. The photographer chuckled at this. How utterly embarrassing. 

“Shuichi,” he breathed, his mind still full of that damned name. All he could think was _Shuichi Shuichi Shuichi Shuichi._ “What… the fuck?”


End file.
